


A Session in Grief

by hipsterloki



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Season 2 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:56:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hipsterloki/pseuds/hipsterloki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No wife, no father, it's just him and his daughter now, and it doesn't help that he feels like he's drowning. It doesn't help when the past comes smiling - blue eyed, bright, accusing and relentless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Session in Grief

**Author's Note:**

> Not Beta-Read. Chris Argent is my favorite and I have all the feels for him. Obviously hints of Peter/Chris and Chris/Victoria in this.

It was awkward at first, his daughter staring up at him with hurt eyes. He saw his little girl again, scared and confused and most importantly, lost. When he sat down next to her, he felt her move closer, inching towards him. His arm was there to wrap around her shoulders and bring her in.

“I don’t know what happened,” he could hear her struggling for words. He could see the profile of her face, obscured by wild black strands of hair, teeth worrying the curve of her bottom lip fretfully.

“It’s okay,” was all he could say back. He was never good with words, even with his daughter. He always floundered when someone needed consoling. He was naturally awkward, quiet and aloof -- it was something he had never quite overcame.

And they stayed that way until she climbed into her bed and he left her to bury herself deep within her covers and force herself to sleep. The door clicked behind him and he stayed for a moment, pressing close to the cool wood of her door, listening to the settling quiet of their too-big-too-empty house.

If she was still with them, she would have been making noise downstairs. In the kitchen, in the living room - it wouldn’t have mattered, but he would have been able to hear her. It was after nights like these that she would have brewed him fresh coffee, sliced off a sliver of whatever desert she had made, and sit down next to him asking ‘so?’

He missed that. He missed her. He missed his wife.

He pushed against the door and padded down the stairs, taking off the sweat stained zip-up hoodie and tossing it over one of the chairs. It was an odd sense of liberation, not waiting for her annoyed voice clipping at him to pick it up. But the feeling soured in his stomach and he picked up the clothing all the same, tucking it under his arm.

He could remember the first time he met her, she was introduced as his fiancée and that, was that. There was no discussion on the matter, she came from a prominent family of hunters -- not so prominent as the Argents but what family could touch their esteem? He moved to sit in a leather recliner, tucking the hoodie against his thigh. But she was good to him, and he was good back he had hoped - they had created their routines, laughed together, had Allison together, lived together for twenty odd years. She had become a friend, a staple holding his life together, an anchor that was tangible and real.

His hand found his face, fingers digging against his eyes, trying to shut out the tears he could feel burning their way out of him. But life wasn’t fair, was it? He rubbed his calloused fingers even deeper against his eyelids. It never had been, not for the oldest son of the Argent family.

His childhood had been laughably pitiful, his father being an ominous and omnipotent shadow covering every memory he had. The shadow reached long and far. He could hardly remember a bright day (though there had been a brief period when his sister had come into this world and even his father smiled with pride - sons were soldiers, daughters were leaders - and that day his father had received the daughter he had wanted so badly) and when he could, the memory of his father lurked close behind.

The only memories that seemed clear, bright and vivid were his high school days. He could still see them if he closed his eyes. They were memories of laughter and basketball and he could still hear a certain voice, gentle and teasing and taboo.

“You miss daddy that much?” The voice was cool and mocking and it pushed every single one of his buttons. He pulled his hand away from his face and snapped open his eyes, startled.

Blue eyes met blue, “I _will_ kill you.”

“No, no you won’t.” It was such a soothing tone, such a playful tone. “Who would have thought you’d have a heart of gold, Chris Argent?”

He felt his jaw lock, fingers digging into the worn fabric of his hoodie. “Get out.”

“I can’t do that, I came to see how my favorite Argent was doing - that daughter of yours was going down a slippery slope, if I do say so myself.” A charming smile, a flash of white teeth, and the blue eyes glinted.

“Out,” he felt his voice catch and it was embarrassing how weak he felt. But the werewolf was leaning forward, sincere concern edging lines on Peter’s face. The facial hair on his face made him look sleazy, thick waves of hair smoothed back, lazy curls prominent against his neck. And yet he could still see the boy underneath, how easily Chris could look into those eyes and remember the boys they had been. It hurt too much, especially with the fresh wound that loss had given him.

“Do you miss Victoria that much?” For a moment he had forgotten who he was talking to, _what_ he was talking to. “I can smell it on you, the _grief_.” Peter’s voice had softened, still soothing but without the thin layer of bite to it.

There was something comfortable about Peter resting his hands on the arm rests, his body leaning into his legs. There was something familiar about those blue eyes looking at him imploringly. All he could see was the young boy he had once been, short bangs swept messily to the side, blue yes bright and looking up at him. Strong fingers reached up, forcing Chris’ attention back on the werewolf crouched in front of him.

“Did you,” Peter began, pulling at Chris’ chin with strong fingers. “Did you do the same for me?”

“Stop,” he was too tired to push the hand away from his face, so he sat, shoulders slumping. “Just stop,” he didn’t want to hear the voice anymore. He didn’t want Peter in this house he had built with his wife. He had spent the last twenty years trying to move on from his past, so why did he have to be reminded now?

“Did you?”

“Please,” his voice is hoarse, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he forced himself to swallow. When he had heard of the Hale fire, he had walked out of his house calmly, sliding his arm through his bow and slinging a quiver of arrows over his shoulder. He had disappeared for more than half the day and when he had sauntered back most of his arrows were missing, others broken, or the arrowheads torn off. His eyes were red and puffy, nose and cheeks nipped by the cold but _she_ had said nothing, never asked and she never would. It was something she had let him have, something she knew she couldn’t touch though he could tell it had burned her.

“Chris, did you--”

“No,” he lied in vain. Peter only smiled, blunt nails digging deeper into his jaw.

“Did you cry?”

“No,” he lied again and this time Peter let go of his face, the curling smile wavering. Peter’s nails had left red crescent marks all over Chris’ jaw and careful fingers slid over them gently.

“You can’t lie to me, I thought you were the _smart_ one.” Peter’s wit had lost its bite, for a werewolf that boasted of heightened senses, they could be slow. He wondered if it had finally hit Peter how much Chris did not want this.

“I’m not, I never was. I would have killed you long ago if I had been.”

“Now, now, that’s a bitter lie and you know it.” Peter’s fingers rested against the crook of Chris’ neck. “We must be cursed though, what’s the count now? Three werewolves who have loved an Argent, when you all are so desperate to see us _burn_.” Peter’s eyes had darkened, the smile curdling on his face. “Maybe every Argent must have a wolf pining after them, aren’t you glad I was yours?”

Chris didn’t deign to reply. His fingers curled against the supple leather of the armrests, lips twisting into a frown. “I pined,” he said after the silence had stretched out until it was thin and brittle, Peter’s fingers still splayed over the expanse of his neck.

Peter smiled then, blue eyes bright. “You really did,” a thumb traced up over the strong jaw and resting at Chris’ chin. “It was damn cute.”

“But I moved on--”

“You’re going to have to lie better than that.” Peter’s smile curled into coy grin, all teeth and enjoyment.

“I _tried_ to move on.” Chris bit out, every syllable gritted out through a gate of grinding teeth and clenched jaw.

“That you did, where you happy?”

“Yes.” Chris could see the corners of Peter’s mouth twitch downward. The truth was a bitch sometimes, or every time as Chris had learned. “I was happy. I was happy with my _wife_ and my girl. She was my wife and I miss her.” Peter wrinkled his nose, in displeasure or in disgust he couldn’t tell. But the body was inching away from him, fingers leaving his neck and it felt colder now.

Chris let his head fall into his hand, large palm covering his eyes. He didn’t care if the werewolf was still watching him, he had given everything to Peter long ago, this would be just one more thing to add. The tears burned then, his shoulders hunching as he slowly curled in on himself. Peter’s arms were there, and he could feel the nose against his neck, the body pressing in between his legs. But he was gone as quickly and quietly as he came, and when Chris opened his eyes, he was alone.

He leaned back into the cushions of the chair and smiled, a weak and fragile smile that he nursed into a grin until he laughed. He was _alone_. He could feel the hot tears on his cheeks and he could only nod, continuing the pained laughter bubbling up from his chest. He was all alone. He couldn’t tell when his laughter had turn into choked sobs. He didn’t hear when his daughter had come creeping down the stairs at the sounds of his pained noises and padded towards him, kneeling next to him and resting her head on the cool armrest. But she grabbed his hand and she held it tight in her thin hands, pulling it close to her face. He could feel her tears on his skin, he could hear her ragged breathing and could feel her nails digging into his knuckles as she clutched at him desperately.

_No_ , she seemed to tell him, _you’re not alone_.


End file.
